


Whose sleeves?

by olympia_m



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series, 闇の末裔 | Yami No Matsuei | Descendants of Darkness
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, based on a literary work, self-indulgent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 20:50:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13015866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olympia_m/pseuds/olympia_m
Summary: When I started writing fanfiction again, Shelly asked me if I would post my old stories. I don't like most of them, but some I have decided to share... Here's one of them, one of my most self-indulgent fics. Originally posted at LJ, some 9-10 years ago...(My world clearly needs more Feilong/Oriya and Muraki/Oriya.... for some reason, fusing Yami no Matsuei with the Finder series had - and has - been a thing... what can I say?)The title refers to 'Tagasode' paintings that showed sumptuous clothes on kimono stands, inviting the viewers to think about the owners of the clothes. The story itself is based on the story 'The Mural' or 'The Painted Wall' from  'Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio' by Pu Songling (a book I'm re-reading these days and so reminded me of this little thing).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing fanfiction again, Shelly asked me if I would post my old stories. I don't like most of them, but some I have decided to share... Here's one of them, one of my most self-indulgent fics. Originally posted at LJ, some 9-10 years ago...  
> (My world clearly needs more Feilong/Oriya and Muraki/Oriya.... for some reason, fusing Yami no Matsuei with the Finder series had - and has - been a thing... what can I say?)
> 
> The title refers to 'Tagasode' paintings that showed sumptuous clothes on kimono stands, inviting the viewers to think about the owners of the clothes. The story itself is based on the story 'The Mural' or 'The Painted Wall' from 'Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio' by Pu Songling (a book I'm re-reading these days and so reminded me of this little thing).

Of all the birthday presents Tao had given him, this had been the strangest. At first, he was tempted to decline the invitation, but the way Tao looked at him made him suspect that he had more to do with it than he let on. “It is time to let go of the past,” Tao told him later, between serving him glasses of wine of varying colours and flavours. “It s becoming a problem, the way you avoid anything Japanese. People talk.” And so, he went. 

Twice he felt that going to the exhibition had been a mistake. First at the opening reception, with most of Hong Kong’s elite women fawning over him and suggesting he talk to this accomplished daughter or that. They all looked similar: bejeweled, well-mannered, well-groomed and predatory. Then, when he actually walked around the galleries to see the paintings. 

Even though he could appreciate art, he could not relate to these pictures. His images of modern-day Japan, and the impact that both Asami and Takaba had made on his life created a wall between him and these art works, a wall that he was not certain if he wanted to overcome. He was becoming tired and jaded in his old age, too tired for appreciating aesthetically objects that reminded him of past hurts.

For instance, the paintings before him, with genre scenes of Edo. That was supposed to be the Sumida river, but even when he tried, he couldn’t superimpose the languid, pleasure boats on the river he had seen during his Tokyo visit. The houses reminded him of studio sets, and the viewing of the cherry blossoms so ubiquitous a sight, so tainted by guide books and constant exposure that he could not feel how it could be of interest to anyone. 

Or perhaps that courtesan folding a letter. He could appreciate how the idea of the text on paper was picked up by the calligraphy on her outer garment, itself a work of art. He could enjoy the lustrous texture of her thick, black hair, and the small, delicate features of her perfectly rounded face. But that face was as alien to him as that of Tang courtiers. 

He glanced at Tao. At least he seemed to be enjoying this exhibition, focusing deeply on each painting. It was almost as if he wanted to absorb everything, as if he’d never have a chance to see them again. As if he couldn’t afford the lot if Tao told him he wanted it. 

Feilong smiled. Had he ever been so young? At Tao’s age he had never dreamed of becoming the leader of Baishe, a man free of all restraints and obligations save the ones he’d chosen for himself. He had thought that he knew his place in the world, ready to do as his father wanted, as his brother desired. A pawn – but as long as they accepted him and loved him, he wouldn’t have minded. Back then….

The painting in front of him was different when he looked up. Scenes relating to the twelve seasons unfolded across a scroll. Everything was painted with the most exquisite attention to detail, a miniaturist’s obsession and delight in colours and patterns, from the garments of the young men and women, to the depiction of plants and trees and water. A young man played in the snow under the watchful eye of two women. There was something delicate about him, and yet the way he moved about showed determination, and perhaps a little impatience. The young man made him think of Takaba. He looked down, biting his lips. He had grown to like Asami’s brat. 

When he looked up, the young man seemed to smile at him. Feilong frowned and moved away from the painting. He shouldn’t have drunk the champagne offered at the reception. It must have been of really low quality. He looked for Tao, but at least he seemed fine, still engrossed in the pictures. 

As he studied the next scroll, he felt someone tug his sleeve. He looked back, frowning at the insolence and the young man from the painting smiled at him. Well? he seemed to say as he moved away, and Feilong followed him, still frowning, still confused, but more curious than concerned. Very bad champagne. 

The young man led him past a wooden gate and Feilong tried not to feel too uncomfortable at the way people leered at him and his companion. An old man dressed in a bright green kimono underneath a somber black haori pulled at his jacket. ‘Foreigner?’ His companion giggled.

Feilong looked at him more carefully. He looked much younger than Takaba, so young indeed that he could not understand how he could have been so deceived, and so reckless. A child was a child was a child. He pushed the old man aside gently, and then tried to speak to the young man. “You shouldn’t be here,” was all he managed to say before being pulled aside. 

A scene straight out of a painting – within the painting? – unfolded before him. A gorgeously dressed courtesan, her garments so delightfully arranged and coloured that no print could do them justice, walked slowly towards him. Her two attendants, dressed in matching kimono, tried to look as solemn and serene as their mistress, but only managed to look like two little girls out for a picnic. The one on the left would become a great beauty one day. Feilong smiled at them. 

His companion tugged at his sleeve again. “Do you not like it here?”

“Aren’t you too young for this place?”

“I am an actor. One day, I’ll be the most famous actor in the entire Edo. No, in the world.”

Feilong smiled at him. “Still.” He moved along, finding himself oddly embarrassed. The women on display were for sale, regardless of their finery. Everyone was there for a reason only, and that made him feel on display too, his desires exposed to all, visible, judged and ridiculed all at once. 

“Still,” the young man laughed. “Come on. I have something to show you.” 

Feilong tried to ignore the brightly dressed women and the men in non-descriptive clothing they passed. Scents that had no place in a studio set assaulted him. Dung and sweat and piss. Even the perfumes were too many, too strong, ultimately revolting. 

“Here,” his companion finally said in front of a less grand establishment. He pushed a curtain aside and led him inside, past the front rooms and along a corridor, until they reached a room at the back of the house. It was sparsely furnished, but there was tobacco and a pipe ready, as well as all a bottle and two cups beside a mattress under a mosquito net. 

When Feilong opened the side door, he saw a small, but tidy garden. “Charming,” he said with a slight snort. “Is this the point where we make love?” He turned around and the young man was gone. “Eh?”

Behind the mosquito net the young man stirred. Feilong moved towards him, and when he raised the net, he realized it was a different young man staring back at him. A young man closer to him in age who didn’t make him feel like such a pervert. A young man who didn’t even look like Takaba or Asami, but like he’d just come out of a period painting, with delicately drawn features and a smiling, soft mouth, with long, black hair and skin as white as porcelain. 

“I saw you at the cherry blossom viewing,” the young man said. “I’d hoped my friend would find you.”

Feilong sat by his side. “Had you?”

The young man nodded. “Yes. And yes, this is the point where we make love.”

Feilong found he had nothing to say to that. The net fell behind him with a gentle rustle. The young man undressed him slowly with worshipful hands and smiling eyes and Feilong let himself be seduced. 

When morning came the young man left him, and bid him stay in the room. Feilong obeyed. It had been a long time since he had slept so peacefully and so deeply, and the maids were most charming when they tried to tidy up without disturbing him. The view from the room was peaceful too, the garden quietly beautiful, and when the young man came back, Feilong found more peace in being caressed than he ever imagined. 

“You really do stand out like this,” the young man told him on the second night they spent together. He showed him a dark haori. It was plain enough, but the interior lining was pure silk, embroidered with scenes from Edo. “You should try this,” he said as he made Feilong wear it. 

Feilong didn’t object. He let the young man dress him, and then half-undress him as he willed. 

“The moon is more beautiful when it’s hidden behind the clouds. More beautiful still when it’s half-full, and even more when it’s nothing but a silver crescent,” the young man told him as he pointed at the moon on the third night they spent together.

Like the proverbial idiot, Feilong stared at the young man’s finger, and his hand, and his wrist, and his arm, and how elegant it looked in the faint moonlight, how pale and otherworldly as it stretched upwards from the dark red silk of his sleeve against a dark grey background. 

“But I know something even more beautiful,” the young man continued and he reached for Feilong, all cool silk and warm flesh and hard muscles. 

Feilong didn’t argue with that either. 

The next morning they were awakened not by the maids, but by a frantic rapping against the door. It was the young actor, bringing bad news. The father of Feilong’s lover was looking for them and the only way they could be safe would be for Feilong to stay hidden while the young man went back to his home. Only for a little while, until things calmed down. 

Feilong kissed his lover goodbye and wondered if he should stay or not. If he went, where would he go? What if he stayed there? What of Baishe? He hadn’t thought of it in days. The way he’d never questioned its existence and its importance in his life when he was younger. Back then, it didn’t matter where he was. He was a member of Liu’s family. A pawn perhaps, but a valuable one. And one day, he’d be dead, having served his purpose. Back then, he would have been satisfied with that. 

Outside, he heard the maids speak. They sounded hurried and then, he could hear them respond to harsh, male voices. Men who looked for him. Girls who hid him. Back then, girls would tell him all their secrets and men would run away from him. Back then, he wouldn’t have stayed in a bed that still smelled of sex and perfume and tobacco, hidden in a room that was dark even during daytime. Back then, he would have faced them. 

Feilong had none of his usual weapons, but the lamp stands were heavy, made of iron, and the mosquito net was fastened to the beam above with fine silk. He could use these. He balanced one stand in his hand and opened the door with the other. Tao stared at him, his eyes becoming wider and wider while his mouth worked soundlessly, until he suddenly, uncharacteristically, unwisely, hugged him.

Feilong pushed him back, smiling. 

“What happened? Master Fei was there one moment, and then Master Fei was gone.” 

Feilong shrugged. He couldn’t explain it even though he knew he could narrate it, so what was the point of telling his … story?... experience?... hallucination?... to anyone? “But Master Fei is back now,” he said, dismissing Tao’s concern and gentle urging to sit down. He glared at everyone who tried to come close to him and his bodyguard finally appeared, buffering him from the gallery crowd.

Tao didn’t seem relieved, but he didn’t say anything else. He just tugged at Feilong’s haori, frowning, and then, a while later, pointed at one of the painted screens. A black jacket was displayed on a kimono stand, next to a deep red under-kimono. “Isn’t that garment very unusual?”

Feilong smiled. It looked just like his jacket. Everything was ephemeral and happiness a lie. Just like something out of a corny song written by teenagers for teenagers. Had he ever grown old? 

When Tao asked him what he thought, he lied and said: “Nothing.”


	2. Omake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter one was written some ten years ago but the omake was written this week...

Oriya almost broke the door as he walked into Muraki’s room. “I swear, this is the last time I let you talk me into having pizza for dinner,” he shouted.

Muraki rubbed his eyes and sat up, raising an eyebrow. To ask if breakfast was ready would probably make Oriya madder. 

“I had the weirdest dream, that’s why,” Oriya told him, quieter, sitting next to him. 

“Did you now?” Muraki lay back down, reaching for his glasses and putting them on. The world lost its fuzziness. Oriya became this sharp and focused thing that hid behind soft cotton. “What was it?”

“I was in Edo.” Oriya pointed at himself, incredulous. “Me, in Edo.” 

“Edo,” Muraki nodded. 

“Yes, Edo. Not even Tokyo. And I was wearing really boring clothes, which was horrible.” 

“An unfashionable Edoite. What a nightmare.”

“I know, right?” 

Muraki chuckled. He sat up again. “Come on.”

“No, there’s more.” Oriya stood up and started pacing. “So, I had the most oppressive of fathers…”

Muraki snorted. “You can’t blame that on cheese.”

“True, true,” Oriya said hastily. A moment later he grinned. “So true. Anyway, my escape was hanging out with actors and courtesans, and whenever I could I would go to this little place I was renting at a teahouse.”

Muraki bit back his laughter. “Again, I don’t think it’s the pizza.”

“It gets weirder.” Oriya suddenly stopped and sat down again, facing Muraki. “I was at this cherry blossom viewing party when I saw this gorgeous man and I wanted him.”

Muraki blinked. “Okay, maybe you can blame the pizza a little.”

“Right? Right?” Oriya nodded. 

“So, what did you do? Was that the point when you woke up, shocked to discover that we have more things in common than you previously thought?” Muraki grinned.

“No,” Oriya drew out the vowel, looking away from Muraki. “No,” he whispered. His cheeks reddened. “I asked a friend to find him for me. And he did.”

“Oh, my god, You Had A SEX Dream,” Muraki shouted, laughing. “You did, you totally did.”

Oriya hit him on the head with his pipe, still looking away from him. “It was the pizza,” he insisted. 

Muraki fell back on the bed, rubbing his forehead. Oriya busied himself with studying his fingernails. “So,” Muraki asked when he decided that the silence had become too much, “did you like it?”

Oriya glanced at him. 

Muraki pulled him down and on top of him. Oriya stared at him in shock. “I think you did,” he said softly, raising his hand to untie Oriya’s hair and then caress it. So thick and soft. Muraki wanted to wrap himself in it. “Did you seduce your young man, or did he seduce you?”

Oriya’s gaze was drawn to Muraki’s mouth for a moment. Then he smiled slowly. “Guess.”

Muraki hugged Oriya’s waist. “You did. You totally did,” he said softly, licking his lips, watching fascinated how Oriya’s eyes tracked the slightly movement. 

“I still think it was the cheese,” Oriya said just as softly, staying still as Muraki slowly lowered his hands and cupped his ass. 

“If you say so,” Muraki grinned. “Maybe you want to show me how you did it? I’m always curious to learn new things, master.”

Oriya snorted. “I’m hardly the master here.”

“Well, if you won’t,” Muraki laughed and rolled them over, tangling the sheet that covered him between them. “Maybe I will show you.”

“Will you now?” 

Muraki studied Oriya who stared at him curiously. Was he about to fuck up the only friendship he had for the sake of sex? Oriya seemed to wonder the same thing. Muraki smiled. He moved away and reached for his cigarettes and lighter, staring at the garden. 

Behind him he heard Oriya move, probably sitting up. “In my dream. The young man left me,” Oriya said softly. 

Muraki put down the packet. Fuck this. Why couldn’t Oriya just ask for what he wanted, like a normal person? He turned around and reached for Oriya’s wrist. “I can’t promise not to leave you.”

Oriya frowned. 

“But maybe I can love you until then?”

“You idi…” Oriya started. Muraki didn’t let him finish. Oriya’s mouth was far too sweet for swear words, he decided.


End file.
